


Now I Know

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M, Romance, Series: One Moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a first time for everything, Jim Ellison...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now I Know

## Now I Know

by Jack Reuben Darcy

Author's disclaimer: Usual stuff: I don't own them, someone else does, I'm not making any money from this - but I am having a lot of fun ... 

* * *

He thinks I'm repressed. 

Or rather, he thinks I repress stuff - which isn't the same thing at all, though for some reason, the distinction occasionally drifts past him unnoticed. I find that pretty amazing in itself, that anything, no matter how small can make it past him. Still, I guess we're all human and he usually has so much going on in his busy mind, a few things have no choice but to fall through the holes. 

I'm supposed to be checking my mail. I'm supposed to be standing here, going through this stuff and yeah, my hands are moving and my head is down but the eyes aren't really looking. I'm not zoning, just listening. To him. 

Heartbeat, respiration, blood-pressure, the shifting of cloth against cloth, even the breathy twist of muscle and fibre as he moves. I'm listening to his existence, listening to him. 

I know sometimes I have trouble with volume, but on a day to day basis, unless something really big happens nearby, volume isn't the problem at all - it's overload. When too many things I need to notice are all going on at the same time and I can't prioritize. He taught me how to fix that, taught me how to filter out the stuff I didn't need. 

I'm a good student. I mean, if I had to, for one of his tests for example, I could count probably upwards of a hundred different noises that I can hear from the bullpen behind me without even pausing. Like, right at this second? There's five people talking, three phones ringing, Simon is changing the filter in his coffee maker, a medium breeze is warping the windows and Rhonda just broke a fingernail though she hasn't noticed it yet. 

Oh, now she has. 

But it's like reading words on paper. You don't need to examine the paper itself, do you? No, you just concentrate on the important stuff \- and right at this moment, I'm concentrating on him. 

It's weird, I know. Weird that, after all this time, he's still there. Still with me. Still connected to me like we have some invisible umbilical cord running between us. Only, some days I think I can actually see it. Not exactly the stuff sentinel eyes were designed for, I know, but there it is. 

I wonder if he's looking at me, wondering why it's taking me more than a few seconds to look at my mail. Probably not. He's probably focussed on the computer, letting his mind run free. I like that about him. That he can just switch from one thing to another, mostly without pausing. 

I haven't told him I love him. He's only asked me about it once. Two days ago. Said it was okay that I hadn't said it yet, that he was just making an observation. 

I could almost hear the gears grinding. I smile now as I remember. But he really was relaxed about it - I've learned to tell the difference between when he's simply trying to be casual and when he really is casual. He's not worried. 

I do love him. 

And I think he knows it. At least, I hope he knows it. 

We've been lovers for exactly nine days, fourteen hours and seven minutes. But it may as well be a whole lifetime for the difference it makes. That's what it feels like to me - a lifetime. A life. He does that to me. Always has. I hate cliches but the truth is, there are moments when I really do feel like I've been asleep most of my life. Moments when we're in bed together - or when he makes some relatively innocent comment when we're in the truck. And then I can see why things become cliches and I just can't bring myself to say it out loud. I'm not sure I'm willing to sound that dumb. 

Joel walks by, saying something I respond to without thinking too much. He smiles, laughs and continues on, unaware. Like everyone else, I guess. Nobody knows. At least, nobody's said anything and let's face it, we're all usually so wrapped up in our work, we don't tend to notice much else. I'd like to say it's because we haven't changed - but I'd be kidding myself. We have changed. Maybe not a lot on the outside, where they'd see it, but the change is there. 

And sometimes it _is_ on the outside. Like yesterday, when we were looking at the same screen. He pulled his chair closer to mine and under the safety of the desk, he put his hand on my knee, squeezing gently before taking it away again. Just a tiny gesture of affection and yet, I felt it resonate through the whole day, as though the temperature indoors had risen five degrees, removing the chill of winter. Not a lot, just a little. Enough. 

He does a lot to me. 

I find myself watching him. Sometimes from a distance, dialling up the old eyesight. He's good to watch. A whole home entertainment package wrapped into one body. When I first started doing it, I couldn't take my eyes away from the eighteen different colours in his hair, the way his hands moved when he spoke. Then I began to notice more, in that it wasn't just his hands which moved but his whole body. If he ever lost the power of speech, he'd still be able to communicate. If only with his face. 

God, how I love that face. When it's asleep, laughing, frowning, glasses on or off, angry or that really great look he gets when he's reading. He's a million miles away, no idea that every single thought he has is mirrored in his gently shifting features. So far I've catalogued fifty-one different expressions - and I only started last week. Would be a lot more but I know sometimes he knows I'm watching him and I have to break off. 

I open an envelope and pull out a sheaf of papers, my hands playing along with the charade, making it look like I'm actually doing something, standing here, listening to him. If I go back to my desk, I'll have to do some work and then I won't be able to listen. I'll still hear of course, but not actively listen. 

I like that connection. I think I need it. 

He smiles at me a lot. Don't think that's changed much. What's changed is _how_ he smiles. There's the smile the outside world will see - and there's the one for me, both wrapped up in the same stretch of facial muscles, the same startling eyes. But I know it's for me. He makes sure I know. 

I like the way he talks. I like the words he uses. He never treats me like an idiot, never makes me feel stupid. For somebody so smart, that's quite an achievement. Some days I feel so dull compared to him \- but then, on other days, when I say something he's not thought of before, his face freezes for a moment, and then he comes out with one of his best smiles, nods and tells me I'm a genius. I really like it when that happens. 

I like the way he moves air. Doesn't just shove it around like most people do. He gets it really teased up, moving of it's own accord, buzzing. He infuses other people with it - me included. It's infectious, his energy, his enthusiasm. Not just for work, but for life itself. Don't know where he gets it from but I like it. Sometimes I look for it, knowing what it will do to me, knowing I need it. 

But I get to see the best of him. When we're alone, especially when we're making love. He's a good lover. Good in the widest sense of the word. Good the way he's a good person. He takes all of himself into bed with me, leaving nothing behind, omitting nothing. He gives himself to me; his _self_. I'll never forget the first time I felt him inside me, the first time we made love. I was so amazed, I scared him for a moment; I know he thought I'd zoned. 

Of course, I could never zone on him. I can zone on just about anything else, but not him. It just wouldn't happen. I can't fixate on one particular sense when I'm with him simply because he fills _all_ my senses. 

Nearly _over-filled_ that moment, nine days ago. It was after work, a long, tiring day - but not a bad day. Just long. And I was sitting on the couch, about to have my first beer. He was messing around in the kitchen, not doing anything constructive so I just asked him what was wrong. He turned, came half-way across the room and stood there, hands on his hips, all scientist, head tilted slightly, this quizzical look on his face and just came out and said it. 

"Jim, are you attracted to me?" 

He was really good afterwards, getting a cloth to mop up the beer I'd sprayed across the coffee table and the floor oh yeah, and the wall opposite. Guess I just don't know my own strength. And after that, he was good patting my back, helping me stop the coughing. I forget how many times he apologized but I do remember clearly how contrite he was. 

And then I remember kissing him. I remember him kissing me back. Yeah, I remember that. 

I can't help smiling now - but it's time I got back to my desk. I turn and only then lift my gaze. It takes about a split second, but no more, for him to look up at me. No expression on his face, no question. Nothing. Just his face and his eyes and they're turned to me. 

Me. 

I _know_ him. 

He thinks I'm a repressed individual and that that's why I haven't told him I love him yet. For all that he's so open about my repression, he doesn't really push it hard, certainly not as hard as we both know he could. No, he respects it. I like that about him. He respects me. He likes me. 

He only looks at me for a second. Just long enough to register - though in my time-scale, the moment lasts about a minute. Perhaps it's got something to do with sentinel sight, but I always seem to see so much of him in those brief encounters, when that blue seems to drown out the rest of reality. I see windows on the incredible world he's always so eager to share with me. 

I wonder if he has any idea what he does to me. Could he know? Would telling him I love him get that much across? Compared to how I feel, the word love seems hopelessly inadequate, a burnt-out cliché I'm unwilling to use simply because it doesn't come anywhere near what I feel. It took me the first week we were together simply to get over the shock. Since then, I've been reeling with just how profound it all feels. 

Good word that, profound. Deep works, too. But love? 

I reach my desk and he's looking at me again, a little humour in the blue now, as though he's read my mind. Actually, some days I think he does that deliberately, so I think perhaps the sentinel/guide bond has grown so deep he can. But I know better. I know him. And he knows me. I think I like that best of all. 

I sit down and sort through the mail I've been holding for five minutes without looking at it. I pull papers across the desk, slipping a few things into a file, all the while wondering if I'll be able to keep my voice steady when I finally get around to saying something to him. 

It's gotta be done some time. 

"Chief?" 

"Yes?" 

"You hungry?" 

"Starving, man! I suppose you want a Wonderburger, eh?" 

"Why?" I glance aside at him, trying hard not to smile too hard. "You offering?" 

He laughs at that, shaking his head. His hair is tied back today and though I like the curls loose, I also like this look. It suits him. And he has his glasses on. Looks only slightly older than a teenager. Makes me feel like a cradle-snatcher. Makes me smile harder. 

"Okay," he sighs, making the sound a huge effort, as though I were asking him to steal the Crown Jewels. "If you really want a Wonderburger" 

"No," I reply, sitting back, folding my hands together so he doesn't notice anything. "A sandwich will do fine. Why don't you go down to the corner and pick me out something with those grassy things on it." 

"Sprouts?" 

"Yeah, grass sprouts." 

"Alfalfa." He's chuckling now, like we've never had this discussion before. Well, maybe we haven't. Not in this life, at least. "You want a sandwich? Don't want to come with me?" 

"Aw, Chief, you're a big boy now. Besides, if I go, everyone else will assume we're making a lunch run and we'll have to take orders." 

He stands, feeling his back pocket for his wallet. "So, just you and me, then." 

"Yeah," I nod and look down at my desk because I can't look at him right at this moment. "Just you and me." 

He pauses, as though he's surprised I'm not going with him. I could, of course. Without any trouble at all. But just at this second, I want to watch him walk, want to see him bounce across the room towards the elevator. Want him to be gone for a few minutes so I can miss him. Miss him enough to feel that jolt when he comes back. 

So I let him go. 

And I watch him walk and I keep track of him as he takes the elevator down but the moment he leaves the building, I put my mind back on the job at hand or it wouldn't be fair. I've never tested just how far I can hear him - and I don't want to. I'd like to think I could find him anywhere, whenever I needed to. Whenever he needed me to. 

At no point do I look at the clock. Simon walks by and says something about the case we're working today. I make a note, answer him, tell him we'll be out after lunch. Simon goes away. I think I might have to tell him soon. I think he's wondering why I don't hang out with him much at the moment. No idea what he'll say. Not sure how I'll tell him. Might be a bit awkward, that. 

I get the paperwork done, fill in some more forms, sort two more cases out. We've a couple in court next week and I won't have the time later. I'm reaching for the current case file when I hear it. His heartbeat. 

Fast, like a freight train only lighter and much more fun. He's only just come back into the building but I can see him in my mind, bouncing like he's a fucking beach ball. And I try, try so hard, try harder than I've ever tried before not to start laughing. 

But it's so very hard not to. 

The elevator seems to take forever to get here, but I keep my eyes down. Down as though I'm actually doing some work - not sitting here like an idiot. 

Actually, I think I _could_ zone on this. On this feeling, I mean. Sitting here listening to every groan and crunch the elevator makes, the double-time heartbeat hammering away inside. I can hear paper rustling in his hands, a foot tapping - but no words. He's not sending me some message before he gets out into the bullpen even though he must know I'm listening for him. But then, I hadn't expected him to. Not his style at all. Nope, it'll happen when it happens. 

But when the elevator finally does come to a stop, when I hear the doors open, I'm no longer in control of my head. I look up. I can't help it. I have to. I have to see his face in this moment. This first moment. I have to see it. 

He's not smiling. At least, his face isn't. But his eyes? Oh, god! He takes two steps forward before he breaks form completely and the rest of his face catches up. 

I sit there stunned that the entire bullpen doesn't instantly incinerate. He's blinding when he's like this. No, more than that. He's incredible. 

Nobody notices the smile but me. I don't know what my face is doing. I only know I can't look away from him. Can't stop myself from absorbing every second of this moment. He comes across the empty space towards me, his feet working on their own, paper bags in his hands forgotten. He stops beside my desk, puts the food down and pulls up his chair. Then he sits, his eyes darting to the lunch. 

"Chicken and lettuce." His voice is all shaky, a little breathless and sexy as hell. "On rye. No mayo." 

I don't say anything. I mean, what can I say? I simply have to wait. 

"Thought I'd save the alfalfa for another day when you're pissing me off or something." 

And just like that, the bounce dries up and it's one of those rare moments when he is completely and utterly still. Now it's my heart that's doing the pounding. He takes so long to say something else, he starts to scare me. When he moves, he doesn't look up. 

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper, folded once. He kind of waves the air with it, as though it will help him make a point - but he's still not saying anything. And then I wonder if he can read my mind because he stops suddenly, darts a glance at me then unfolds the paper and puts it on the desk in front of me. 

I don't look at it. After all, I already know what's on it. I wrote it this morning while he was in the shower, slipped it into his wallet when he wasn't looking. Three little words, they say, make all the difference in the world. 

Cliché, yeah, but in my world, too. 

I find I'm swallowing, looking to meet his gaze again. Finally, he looks up and there's no laughter there, no bounce, no frenetic energy. Just a serious, solemn expression I'd be happy to dwell in if it was any other day. 

And then he speaks. "Jim" 

"Yeah?" 

"Jim" He says my name again, as though he thinks it will help ground him or something. I wish he wouldn't. I mean I'm the one flying on a string and a prayer here. 

"What?" My voice is no more than a whisper I'm surprised he can hear. 

Another moment's silence and he says, "Do you mean it?" 

It takes what feels like a full minute for me to start breathing again. And when I do, my face creases all up, I'm sure, ageing me 20 years in an instant. I have no idea what my smile does to him, but it must be okay because he's smiling back at me. Glowing, in fact. 

"Yes, Chief, I mean it." 

And then we're sitting there like a pair of idiots. 

And words come tumbling out of his delicious mouth, proving that not even I can keep him quiet for long. "Jim, man, I nearly died in the sandwich shop when I pulled out some cash and that came with it. When did you and you mean it man, I mean" he's almost laughing now, the bounce is back, the hands are moving, the body is generating enough energy to power a whole city block. I can tell he wants to hug me, do something this public arena won't allow. But it kind of doesn't matter, because I can see it all in his eyes. 

He's happy. 

So am I. 

"Jim that is so cool!" He says this like he thinks _his_ words are inadequate - but they're more than enough for me. He's more than enough for me. 

"Yeah," I laugh with him, reaching for my lunch rather than him, my preferred choice. "It is, isn't it?" 

He thinks I'm repressed. Maybe I am. But only on the outside. 

* * *

End Now I Know.

 


End file.
